Facets of Hate
by Bekquai
Summary: Hisoka hates many things. And here he muses upon them in varying shades of angst.


Author's Note: It's disjointed and disturbing-ish on purpose.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Yami no Matsuei.  
  
  
  
Facets of Hate  
  
  
  
  
Hisoka hates a lot of things.   
  
First, he hates his psychic powers.  
  
Second, he hates Muraki.  
  
Third, he hates himself.  
  
  
  
  
Hisoka doesn't hate working at EnmaCho. He doesn't hate the people there. He doesn't even hate the jobs he gets sent out on, messy and unpleasant as they can be.  
  
But he is always, _~always~_ irritated.  
  
At work people wonder why he's cranky, and why he's so mean. He's heard the sniggered comments about how he has PMS, with his whip-crack sudden mood swings and changes of opinion. It never occurs to them that there's a simple explanation for it. It's because the moods he's displaying aren't his own. He knows they aren't his own. He can't help it.  
  
Fucking empathy. No one understands what a curse it is.  
  
He hears Tatsumi worrying over the budget, Konoe-kacho fuming over Tsuzuki's latest exploit, Wakaba sympathizing with both Terazuma and Tsuzuki. He never has a moment to himself, even when he barricades himself in his small house and locks the door, because Meifu is so small and all the minds living there are so strong he can't block them out.  
  
He doesn't understand it, though. For Christ's sake, can't anyone on Meifu learn how to shield? It isn't Hisoka's fault when their thoughts and feelings wear on him like sandpaper, and it's been a long day for everyone and tempers are running short, and Tsuzuki is depressed and hasn't gotten his cinnapon for the third day in a row - And then Hisoka starts to think things like "I really like the ones with extra frosting, I think I'll stop by after work," or "I'll have to get a new hair-ribbon for her to thank her" or "When did Konoe-kacho schedule the meeting for next week?"  
  
And he gets up to ask Wakaba her favorite color or go ask Tatsumi for more funding, and then realizes that it wasn't him that was thinking that. Tsuzuki stares for a bit, and he feels himself turn red, which he hates - only Tsuzuki can make him blush - and he sits back down without doing anything and feels like an idiot.  
  
  
  
  
Hisoka doesn't understand some things. Like how Tsuzuki can eat so much in one sitting, or how Tatsumi always can figure out just how much was spent on dessert even when Tsuzuki doesn't save the receipt. He doesn't understand how Watari can blow up a lab every week and yet isn't in as deep a debt as Tsuzuki.  
  
He doesn't understand how Tsuzuki can smile so much while dying of so much pain and loneliness on the inside.  
  
He's heard enough meaningless philosophy to understand that everyone is alone. No one has anyone but themselves, when it comes right down to it. Even if you have loved more deeply than can possibly be understood, you will be alone in the end, just you in your head with your thoughts running from you as you fade to black. Fade to death.  
  
But that isn't true, because Hisoka is never alone.  
  
  
  
  
He should be used to it by now, having his thoughts invaded and waylaid by the minds of others. It's been happening since he was born, but it never gets easier. The strange, foreign touch of another mind unnerves him now as it had when he first felt his mother's hatred toward him, his father's disgusted disappointment.  
  
It had been even worse when he'd met Muraki for the first time, when he'd witnessed the murder. He felt the woman die. He felt her pain and terror and hate and panic, and he felt it all fading away, fading into nothing - and it felt like _~he~_ was fading, like _~he~_ was dying, and he couldn't move for the shock of it all. And that momentary hesitation between when the feeling of death faded and when Muraki spotted him that had been the beginning of his own demise.  
  
  
  
  
When he'd fallen sick, he'd felt every joy and pain in that hospital, every moment of victory and defeat, and every death.  
  
Every. Single. Death.  
  
Always fading away, always slipping into that black abyss, and never ever staying there in solitude and peace.  
  
It said in the files in the Gushoshin's library that Kurosaki Hisoka had been dying for three years. No one but Hisoka ever really knew how accurate that was.  
  
  
  
  
The second worst memory Hisoka has is of his rape. Because no matter how strong his own feelings of terror and pain and disgust and hate and panic had been, throughout the whole ordeal he could still feel Muraki's sick, twisted enjoyment. In the confusion of the moment, in his panic and confusion, it had been hard to understand which emotions were his and which weren't.   
  
He'd felt his rapist's pleasure and mistaken it for his own. He still feels nauseous and dizzy whenever he tries to come to terms with the idea, which is so utterly wrong and disgusting, and he knows he ~didn't~ enjoy being raped - but emotions rarely listen to the protests of the mind.  
  
He hates himself, and whenever the scars that remind him of the encounter appear on his body, he wants to dig his fingers in and tear the flesh from his body.  
  
Every time he thinks about Muraki, his scars resurface. One can barely tell they're there, normally. But as long as Muraki is around, Hisoka's chest, back, and arms will gain intricate, red tattoos at the thought of what happened that night.  
  
Red, the color of blood. The color of pain. The color of lust. The color of innocence not so much lost as brutally ripped to pieces and devoured in a sea of self-loathing and despair.  
  
  
  
  
Hisoka hated himself in life, and he still does now. So he doesn't understand why Tsuzuki puts up with him. Why he's always ready with a smile in the morning when Hisoka arrives, why he tells ridiculous jokes in misguided attempts to get Hisoka to laugh, why he is always just _~there~_, waiting and smiling as if it was normal.  
  
Hisoka doesn't understand how he ever managed to get Tsuzuki to stay.  
  
It still fills him with horrified panic, the thought that Tsuzuki wanted to die - still wants to, in fact. He can't hide that from Hisoka, no matter how many times he smiles and jokes and eats too much.  
  
So why is he still here? Because Hisoka needs him? That's another thing that makes no sense to the teen. Why would anyone stay around for someone like _~him~_? A cold, moody, twisted and broken boy that doesn't even know if the need he feels is the same as love?  
  
And how could he even need Tsuzuki, much less love him? He doesn't understand how the man, who'd only been annoying and confusing by turns, had become so important. All he knows is that if Tsuzuki moves on, he'll follow. The idea of continuing to live and work and feel other people's feelings without the reassuring presence of Tsuzuki makes Hisoka want to curl up on the floor and have a panic attack. His heart leaps into his throat and he has to breathe deeply for a few moments to get his composure back.  
  
It scares him that he feels this deeply about Tsuzuki. It scares him that some nights he wakes up in a sweat because he's had the nightmare he's had since Kyoto, the one where it's him and Tsuzuki in the flames and Tsuzuki won't stay with him. Only in this version, Tsuzuki does stay with him, and they're embracing each other and Hisoka feels so so so warm and it's got nothing to do with the flames around them.  
  
Because then he and Tsuzuki aren't in the flames, they're in a bed, together, with Tsuzuki above him and around him and pressing down on him. And it feels so good for a moment, because they're kissing and it's so sweet it makes tears threaten to spill over.  
  
But then the dream is twisted in memories of Muraki and pain and fear, and Hisoka wakes up to see his bright red scars in moonlight. But he can hear everyone around him and he's not alone but he's so so scared. And he _~is~_ alone, because Tsuzuki doesn't want to be alive, even for him.  
  
  
  
  
Hisoka hates a lot of things.  
  
He hates it when people touch him.  
  
He hates nightmares.  
  
He hates crying.  
  
He hates that he wants to be held when he cries.  
  
  
  
  
END  
  
  
Feedback, dearies. I crave it. 


End file.
